—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
WINDS OF TIME
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Time bombards
the breeze
with backhand
elegance.
The breeze
is a wind wave
blowing hands
off the clock.
Clock hands
row a boat
on a sea
of choppy waters.
My tongue
is the sail,
twisting and flapping
in the wind.
The boat
seeks shelter
under bridges
to tomorrow.
My heart ticks
down seconds.
Wind pushes
the boat
to the mouth
of potential.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Time bombards
the breeze
with backhand
elegance.
The breeze
is a wind wave
blowing hands
off the clock.
Clock hands
row a boat
on a sea
of choppy waters.
My tongue
is the sail,
twisting and flapping
in the wind.
The boat
seeks shelter
under bridges
to tomorrow.
My heart ticks
down seconds.
Wind pushes
the boat
to the mouth
of potential.
CHOPPY WATERS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
You’ve seen the grebe, its half scene crest,
seen dip and wave between the weave
of crisscross current, low-rise swell
like choppy bob of layered hair,
in watercolour, aqua shades,
teal, shelduck, eggshell, hex as spell?
Jerk choppy hip-hop beat in play,
on butcher’s block, cutlet laid bare,
or suey choice from takeaway—
chop-logic as the bard would say.
When surface calm presents itself
though frantic paddles underneath,
why then define, serene, the state
meant superficial, under strain.
Some cope, for fear, trouble released
will bother offspring, followed genes.
It’s written, one on lake had calmed
the storm, and by it thought as God;
but is it more a primitive
misapprehension, what divine?
In laying down life, weak is strength—
that truth defies establishment;
faith always sails on choppy seas,
religion, open jaws beneath?
See skaters, skimmers, skippers all
Gerridae of meniscus tread,
boatmen preying, as others drown—
it’s choppy space, however smooth.
So squalls then millponds stir, find rest,
as water finds its level best,
pooling on this thick old crust,
from torrent cloud to deepest stretch,
trench bedded down, edge rim of plate.
SPLASH
—Stephen Kingsnorth
What causes splash?
Some boulder block?
Are hopes so dashed
for would-be swim?
And what stirred chemicals in smash
of brine, this bubbled cauldron mix?
Look, are there footprints in the sand
or bashed up castles on the strand?
And were there kids, kings of their mounds,
or Canute’s challenge, neap or spring?
Are there white horses riding waves
or maybe, set Camargue indeed?
Perhaps whale killer after seal,
launching its beachhead hunt for meal,
or oddball geezer alien,
in fluffy flurry, furry skin?
But who designed that diamond drop,
like pearls amongst that gritty slop?
And why are we engaged (the ring?),
by power from moon in tidal fling?
A dash cam moment, shutter speed,
recalling shingle, pummel sound,
and then slow drag back, drawing breath,
before that onslaught, and again.
When I was innocent at ten,
and tentative, bare pebbled soles,
it was incoming rhythm bites
that hid the rockpools, searching net.
I knew not Google, skimming stones,
our phone, home cradle, Bakelite,
but there we mucked, breakwater groynes,
a haven, post-war London slums.
With fortnight summer, wind and rain,
Thames estuary of oyster beds,
bucket, spade and choo-choo train,
I found my paradise in change.
And sixty on, exotic dreams
are nightmares when compared to this.
Though still, on Sabbath, pew to pray,
it was our family at play,
Eternal Father, strong to save,
through lifeboat sirens, launched maroons,
reduced to autumn essays, school,
‘My Holidays’ in words or art;
no journalistic splash involved,
unfathomed by the jetset world,
but these were Battle Britain fields,
and I content with pebbles’ reach.
HALF A CHAT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
on shore, feet almost
wet from choppy waters
called out to a whippoorwill
my bad, it answered
and I hadn’t brushed
up on my whippoorwill
so we just stared at
each other, wondering
what strange thing the
other would do or say
I left it there, poor thing
to figure out the universe
while I strode back to an
improved parcel to get lunch
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
on shore, feet almost
wet from choppy waters
called out to a whippoorwill
my bad, it answered
and I hadn’t brushed
up on my whippoorwill
so we just stared at
each other, wondering
what strange thing the
other would do or say
I left it there, poor thing
to figure out the universe
while I strode back to an
improved parcel to get lunch
ENOUGH NEVER AGAIN
—Caschwa
we now call it World War One
at the time it was happening
it was “The War to End All Wars”
well, imagine that!
school mass shootings, beastly
brutality, all kinds of bad outcomes
you see where this is going
because it has gone there before
time and again, when human nature
reveals it ugliest demeanors, we
showcase a parade of words to express
how adamant we are to deal with this
and it stops there, after so many fine
words, we sit back complacently and
let the forces of nature show their true
colors and erode our mountains of smug
consider, really, how many words does
it take to stop a bullet from piercing your
heart, or convince a drunken driver to
not take the wheel?
how many speed limit signs, or No
Trespassing signs does it take to
actually modify the behavior of someone
determined to do what they feel like?
how many jails and prisons do we have
to fill beyond capacity with wrongdoers
until there is simply not enough staff,
materials, or funds to keep them there?
the new normal is crushing us to death
burying us with our nice words
you see where this is going
because it has gone there before
—Caschwa
we now call it World War One
at the time it was happening
it was “The War to End All Wars”
well, imagine that!
school mass shootings, beastly
brutality, all kinds of bad outcomes
you see where this is going
because it has gone there before
time and again, when human nature
reveals it ugliest demeanors, we
showcase a parade of words to express
how adamant we are to deal with this
and it stops there, after so many fine
words, we sit back complacently and
let the forces of nature show their true
colors and erode our mountains of smug
consider, really, how many words does
it take to stop a bullet from piercing your
heart, or convince a drunken driver to
not take the wheel?
how many speed limit signs, or No
Trespassing signs does it take to
actually modify the behavior of someone
determined to do what they feel like?
how many jails and prisons do we have
to fill beyond capacity with wrongdoers
until there is simply not enough staff,
materials, or funds to keep them there?
the new normal is crushing us to death
burying us with our nice words
you see where this is going
because it has gone there before
OUR CHOICES, OUR FUTURE
—Caschwa
it all comes down to
whom we elect to
represent us
if we embrace people
who take big donations
from the gun lobby, we
are stuck with yesterday’s
2nd Amendment musket
becoming today’s 2nd
Amendment AR-15 military
assault rifle
and further down the line,
that good old 2nd Amendment
AR-15 will become a 2nd
Amendment missile with a
nuclear warhead
available at any corner
weapons shop to any buyer
with the money to lay out
—Caschwa
it all comes down to
whom we elect to
represent us
if we embrace people
who take big donations
from the gun lobby, we
are stuck with yesterday’s
2nd Amendment musket
becoming today’s 2nd
Amendment AR-15 military
assault rifle
and further down the line,
that good old 2nd Amendment
AR-15 will become a 2nd
Amendment missile with a
nuclear warhead
available at any corner
weapons shop to any buyer
with the money to lay out
SEVENTEEN SECONDS
—Caschwa
when I listen to my voice-
mail messages, several
of them are noted to be
17 seconds long
often it is the same voice
calling from different
phone numbers, different
area codes, different times
of day
they don’t know what kind
of health insurance coverage
I already have, but their
message is oh, so URGENT
that I contact them to not
miss out on any benefits
my communication system
lists these calls as Spam,
and I never return the call,
and I never miss out on any
benefits
—Caschwa
when I listen to my voice-
mail messages, several
of them are noted to be
17 seconds long
often it is the same voice
calling from different
phone numbers, different
area codes, different times
of day
they don’t know what kind
of health insurance coverage
I already have, but their
message is oh, so URGENT
that I contact them to not
miss out on any benefits
my communication system
lists these calls as Spam,
and I never return the call,
and I never miss out on any
benefits
STAND-BY FLYING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Standing by
To fly
When I
Had someplace to go,
Suddenly,
If she wanted me,
Which wasn’t always.
In airport hangars,
We pounded shots,
Ate bangers,
Settled into indigestion,
When on-board,
Sinking into seats
To be carried away.
Better than an ambulance
And cheaper, too.
Drinks included,
If that’s what you like to do.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Standing by
To fly
When I
Had someplace to go,
Suddenly,
If she wanted me,
Which wasn’t always.
In airport hangars,
We pounded shots,
Ate bangers,
Settled into indigestion,
When on-board,
Sinking into seats
To be carried away.
Better than an ambulance
And cheaper, too.
Drinks included,
If that’s what you like to do.
ALONE IN GRAY
—Joe Nolan
Dressed in gray,
At work
Or play,
On your lawn,
With things to do,
Things you do,
Processing manifestation.
I see you
These days,
At work or play,
Feeling alone,
Dressed in gray,
From head to foot,
With a gray cap
On your head.
RESPITE
—Joe Nolan
Love and flowers,
Gentle feathers
Softly touching,
Kindly nudging,
Graceful stroking,
Sore spots—
Old knots,
Where pain
Has long set in,
Give us hope of respite
From the weary wind.
Listening to purring moans,
When deep pleasure
Reaches bones,
So long left
So neglected.
Time and loss,
Fearful cost,
Resurgent tears
Overflow
Against sea-walls
Of loneliness.
Today’s LittleNip:
ANNIVERSARY POEM IN CLICHÉS
—Joe Nolan
It was only blind luck
Or the grace of God
That led me to
Stumble into this
Field of clover
And set my ass
In this tub of butter
That I have with you,
My dear!
I am thankful every day
That I’ve been shown this mercy,
That I don’t deserve,
And so I pray
It not be taken away.
____________________
“Choppy Waters” was our Seed of the Week, and several of our poets sprang to the occasion. Our thanks to them, and to all our contributors today, including Joe Nolan for finding some nifty public domain photos for us. And check into the Kitchen every Tuesday for a new Seed of the Week.
For upcoming poetry events in Northern California and otherwheres, click on UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS in the links at the top of this page.
And don’t forget that there are two deadlines on the calendar this week, both for Weds., June 15: the Voices Anthology from Cold River Press, and the Swan Scythe Press Poetry Chapbook Contest. Details for both are at the bottom of the UPCOMING link at the top of this column.
____________________
—Medusa
ANNIVERSARY POEM IN CLICHÉS
—Joe Nolan
It was only blind luck
Or the grace of God
That led me to
Stumble into this
Field of clover
And set my ass
In this tub of butter
That I have with you,
My dear!
I am thankful every day
That I’ve been shown this mercy,
That I don’t deserve,
And so I pray
It not be taken away.
____________________
“Choppy Waters” was our Seed of the Week, and several of our poets sprang to the occasion. Our thanks to them, and to all our contributors today, including Joe Nolan for finding some nifty public domain photos for us. And check into the Kitchen every Tuesday for a new Seed of the Week.
For upcoming poetry events in Northern California and otherwheres, click on UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS in the links at the top of this page.
And don’t forget that there are two deadlines on the calendar this week, both for Weds., June 15: the Voices Anthology from Cold River Press, and the Swan Scythe Press Poetry Chapbook Contest. Details for both are at the bottom of the UPCOMING link at the top of this column.
____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
